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2005-09-08 16:06:05 (link)
Me and George down by the Schoolyard

A few nights ago, my favorite college dropout revealed that George Bush hates approximately 15.88% of his population. In other words, “he hates black people”. Why would the leader of the free world do such a thing, you might ask? Surely, he must have a good reason to despise the black race and let them (along with non-blacks) suffer from a lackadaisical response to probably the greatest natural disaster in American history?

Well, I’d like to apologize to all suffering people everywhere. Bush hates black people because...well..I’m a bad friend.

George and I met while he was campaigning in the fall of 1999. I was a senior in high school, a moderate Democrat with an Air Force vet for a father. We went to the local American Legion Post to see him speak about veterans’ rights. It was amusing to say the least, since he had been given the wrong stump speech and addressed the dozen’s of men as the League of Women Voter’s about how they were America's last hope to defeat the pro-choice movement. After the speech, he had some downtime and bellied up to the bar, as I was preparing to pay the barkeep for my Sprite and my dad’s Canadian Club neat. Mistaking my dad’s drink for mine, he commented, “What’s a young buck like you drinking that fire water son?”

At first, I thought he was hitting on me. But I relaxed a bit, explained the situation with a self-deprecating joke and ambled back to my seat, without realizing that the then-governor took that as an invitation to sit with my father and I. I thought of correcting him, but how many times do you have the chance to talk to a presidential candidate? My father was not so pleased.

“Boy, why is this cracker moron sitting with us?” he whispered under his breath.

“Lighten up pops, it’d be cool talking to a governor,” I said.

And it was. George, or “G.B” as I came to know him as, was funny. Not in a refined way or anything. It was like talking to a 48 year-old Stifler. He made comment after comment about some waitress’ “tatters” or how “long his horn is”. A bit crude, but mostly harmless. The post was closing, and my dad and I were heading to the car, when a creepy staffer who looked like a pederast came up to me and requested my phone number, “in case the governor is in town and could look me up.” I thoughtlessly obliged to “Karl”’s wishes, and went home figuring never to hear from him again…

…until I got a call a month later, at 7:00 a.m.

“Hey Hoss!”, the voice screamed, “guess where I am?”

“Wait, wait, wait. Who the hell is this?”

“What, you don’t remember G.B.?”

“Oh, fuck. Yeah, uh…are you on a plane?”

“Yeah, and I’m fucking wasted! Whoooooo!”

And that’s how my Saturdays went. I would get a call from G.B., and he’d vent his frustrations on how everyone called him an idiot on foreign policy. So I gave him some of my map tests from 10th grade World History. He’d talk about all the “hotties” he was meeting on the road, but I was there to check him back into reality.

Even then, I knew it wasn’t much of a friendship. And it wasn’t just the economic, religious, age or political differences. G.B. was just one of those guys who clung on to someone once he met them. And quite honestly, I was too busy to give him the attention he needed. I had AP courses, JROTC officer duties, extracurriculars and college applications to deal with. Not to mention, I had my own friends, ones who didn’t call me about that “kick-ass Incubus” song he downloaded and just needed to play for me over the phone at 2 a.m. But I didn’t have the heart to tell him off. He wasn’t a bad guy, just an idiot.

I came close in the summer of 2000. His campaign was in full swing, so I figured he’d be too busy to drunk dial me from Bangor, Maine or wherever he was. Not to mention he wasn’t too happy with me after I promised him I’d take Jenna to prom in February, but upon meeting her for the first time, I came down with “pneumonia” a few days beforehand. But there I was, blowing off a movie with a girl I’d been dying to bed, to calm his anxieties about his future. By then, I had committed to Wisconsin-Madison. But his broken voice made me fear for his sanity, so I promised him I’d get an apartment with him in Austin, “should the whole election thing fall through.” When he was elected, I must have been the only relieved Democrat in America. Now, I can focus on my life without G.B. latching onto me.

But it got worse from there. He’d fly Air Force One to Madison in a heartbeat. It did have its advantages from time to time. I never waited in line or got carded when we were “trollin’ for skanks”, as G.B. would put it. But once we were in, he was the worst wingman ever. He’d disappear, vomit on girls I was flirting with or begin lisping while talking about how I was a tiger in bed “lasth nighth”. It was embarrassing. I tried yanking in Condi and Colin to help me, but were more amused than concerned.

It all came to a head a couple years back. G.B. flew in to see "8 Mile" with me at Point. On the way back, he began “freestylin’” to the Patriot Act and how all Dems were “Hatas of Freedom an’ Shit”. I gently chided him for a) slamming the Dems for questioning a highly questionable piece of legislature and b) for rapping like he was from the hood.

G.B. just blew up.

“Why you hatin’ on me Homes? Ain’t we tight!?!,” asked the President.


The car grew deafly silent. “Well, maybe if they weren’t on welfare all the…”

It was at that moment that I punched the shit out of President George W. Bush. His agents immediately pulled my car to the side of the road, dragged me out of the car and were going to execute me…gangsta style, when G.B. spoke.

“No, I ain’t capping you like a bitch,” he proclaimed. “But you’ve ruined it for me. I can’t look at another black person without thinking about how you hate on me. I’ll hate on you all from now on. You ain’t seen hatin’ till you seen my hatin’!”

And with that, he was gone from my life. He called me hundreds of times (especially during last year’s election season), but I never answer it. He sent me a BFF collage, but I burned it. He made me a mixtape with Blink 182’s “I Miss You”, but I snapped it in two.

Maybe one day, we’ll talk and hash things out. But for now, I guess I’ll have to live with the knowledge that G.B.’s hate on the south's black folk was a result of our fractured friendship. So for all of you affected by the hurricane and the government's criminally slow response. bad

by Mike Jones


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